Ava kept my heart moving when sometimes I wished it would not.
She was seven years old now, thin as a reed with restless energy, quick questions, and the same bright smile Melissa used to flash whenever she was proud of herself. Every other Saturday I picked her up and took her to Riverbend Park for ice cream. I always ordered chocolate chip while she chose strawberry swirl. We sat on the same wooden bench beneath a giant oak tree, and she told me about spelling tests, playground arguments, and whichever classmate had been sent to the principal’s office that week for throwing something foolish.
One afternoon in early September began exactly like all the others.
Ava kicked her sneakers above the grass while she proudly told me she had earned an A on her spelling quiz. I smiled and told her how proud I was of her effort. Her face lit up so brightly that for a brief moment I felt as though the world had stitched itself back together again.
Then her smile vanished so suddenly that it startled me.
She leaned closer to me, glancing toward the playground where other children were climbing the slide, and her voice dropped to a nervous whisper.
“Grandpa, please stop sending him money.”